200 Ways Education Dumbed You Down

Prologue

You were never stupid. You were schooled. From the moment you entered the classroom, the world began folding inwards. Curiosity was boxed into subjects. Wonder was timed by bells. Silence became punishment. Movement became misbehavior. And thinking—real thinking—was replaced with memorizing what someone else already said. You weren’t educated. You were formatted. Trimmed, sorted, labeled, and uploaded into a system that rewards obedience, not intelligence.

This essay is not about school reforms or nostalgic grief. It’s a mirror held to your face. A slow, brutal inventory of all the ways you were made smaller—psychologically, emotionally, spiritually—by an institution that claimed to prepare you for life, but only taught you how to pass. If it hurts to read, good. That pain means there’s still something in you that remembers the real you—before the uniform, before the grades, before you were taught to ask for permission just to exist.

---

🔹 PART 1: HOW IT DESTROYED YOUR THINKING

1. You learned to memorize, not to think.

– Exams rewarded parroting, not questioning.

2. You asked too many questions, they said “don’t act oversmart.”

– Curiosity became a crime.

3. You were praised for obedience, not originality.

– The more obedient, the more “intelligent” you appeared.

4. You feared being wrong, instead of learning from it.

– Because wrong answers brought shame, not improvement.

5. You believed textbooks are the final truth.

– No space for multiple perspectives.

6. You thought marks meant intelligence.

– Even if you cheated your way there.

7. You were taught what to think, not how to think.

– No space for logic, just repetition.

8. You stopped thinking once the syllabus ended.

– Nothing outside the textbook mattered.

9. You believed all knowledge is in English.

– Your mother tongue was made to feel dumb.

10. You couldn't think without permission.

– Self-starting was called arrogance.

---

🔹 PART 2: HOW IT KILLED YOUR SENSES

11. You sat under tube lights for 12 years straight.

– Nature’s rhythm was erased.

12. You never learned to listen deeply.

– You listened only to pass exams.

13. You couldn’t tell hunger from boredom.

– Bell schedules ruined your body clock.

14. You learned to fear silence.

– Noise became normal, silence became strange.

15. You forgot how to observe.

– Because you were too busy copying notes.

16. You can’t smell soil before rain or tell one bird from another.

– All real-world learning was labeled ‘unproductive’.

17. You learned answers, not feelings.

– Emotional awareness was never on the syllabus.

---

🔹 PART 3: HOW IT RUINED YOUR RELATIONSHIPS

18. You began competing with your best friends.

– Rankings ruined bonding.

19. You were forced to respect authority, not wisdom.

– You feared teachers, didn’t love them.

20. You judged others by their marks.

– Even your cousins and siblings.

21. You never learned to collaborate, only to copy.

– Group work meant divide-and-copy, not co-create.

22. You became emotionally numb.

– Repressed pain to survive school.

---

🔹 PART 4: HOW IT DAMAGED YOUR BODY

23. You sat for 6 hours a day for 12+ years.

– Movement was punishment, stillness was reward.

24. You didn’t know how to squat or sit on the floor anymore.

– Chairs ruined your spine.

25. You were forced to eat in 15 minutes.

– Destroyed your digestion.

26. You skipped periods, sleep, sun, and stools for exams.

– Biological disrespect became normal.

27. You were punished for needing the toilet.

– Especially during classes or exams.

28. You were mocked for menstruating.

– Schoolboys laughed, teachers ignored.

---

🔹 PART 5: HOW IT TRAINED YOU TO OBEY SYSTEMS

29. You stood in lines for everything.

– Trained for queues, not for choices.

30. You asked to drink water.

– Even when you were dying of thirst.

31. You saluted flags, not farmers.

– Love for nation without love for nature.

32. You believed government exams define your worth.

– UPSC and NEET became gods.

33. You thought getting a certificate means you’re “qualified.”

– Even if you lacked real-world skill.

34. You confused schooling with education.

– You never got either.

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🔹 PART 6: HOW IT DISTORTED YOUR IDENTITY

35. You were shamed for your dialect or accent.

– Hindi/English supremacy ruled over local language pride.

36. You were labeled “average” or “slow.”

– Labels became your identity.

37. You thought your value lies in a degree.

– Not in your character.

38. You mocked labourers who fed you.

– Because they didn’t “study hard like you did.”

39. You learned to hide your ignorance behind English words.

– Fluency replaced wisdom.

---

🔹 PART 7: HOW IT MADE YOU DEPENDENT

40. You need experts for everything.

– Can’t heal a cut without a “doctor’s opinion.”

41. You don’t trust your own intuition.

– Always googling or asking someone.

42. You can’t solve daily problems without a “hack.”

– You lost natural commonsense.

43. You think “research” means “watching 3 YouTube videos.”

– No firsthand exploration.

44. You were never taught how to grow food, fix clothes, or build shelter.

– Survival became outsourcing.

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🔹 PART 8: HOW IT ENSLAVED YOUR TIME

45. You were always preparing for the next level.

– Never living the present.

46. You worked hard, but never asked why.

– Hustling became habit.

47. You gave your best years to someone else’s curriculum.

– Childhood was consumed by institutions.

48. You were too busy to think about life.

– Reflection was considered laziness.

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🔹 PART 9: HOW IT STOLE YOUR COURAGE

49. You feared speaking up.

– Because the last time you did, you got punished.

50. You were afraid to be wrong.

– Because marks mattered more than learning.

51. You stayed silent even when something felt off.

– Because you didn’t want to be isolated.

52. You feared authority so much that you became submissive.

– Even when you were right.

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🔹 PART 10: HOW IT TRAINED YOU TO LIE

53. You learned to fake attendance.

– And thought it was smart.

54. You learned to cheat smartly.

– Because everyone did it, and marks mattered.

55. You learned to please teachers, not be truthful.

– Survival over honesty.

56. You learned to lie at home about school.

– To avoid beatings or shame.

---

🔹 PART 11: HOW IT KILLED YOUR SOUL

57. You stopped wondering about life.

– Spiritual curiosity replaced with syllabus.

58. You never found your gift.

– It was buried under pressure and fear.

59. You forgot how to be still.

– Mind always racing for the next goal.

60. You confused worth with productivity.

– “Doing nothing” became sin.

—

🔹 BATCH 2: HOW IT CONFUSED YOU ABOUT WORK, MONEY & SUCCESS (Points 61–80)

61. You thought a “good job” means a government badge or a big company.

– Even if the work was meaningless.

62. You believed income is proof of intelligence.

– But never asked why crooks get rich quicker than toppers.

63. You were taught that business is greedy and risky.

– So you stayed dependent on salaries all your life.

64. You were never shown how value is created.

– Just told to “study hard” and “get placed.”

65. You thought success means being praised, not being useful.

– Image over impact.

66. You were taught to fear failure like a disease.

– So you never tried anything new without a backup plan.

67. You believed hard work is always noble.

– Even if it led nowhere or burnt you out.

68. You judged people by their qualifications, not their skills.

– A plumber became “low status,” an MBA “respectable.”

69. You confused stability with security.

– And got stuck in boring jobs out of fear.

70. You assumed more certificates mean more wisdom.

– But never questioned why the most degreed often know the least.

71. You believed passion is for the rich.

– And that you don’t have that “luxury.”

72. You accepted a life of delay: Study first, live later.

– “This is not the time to enjoy” was repeated for 25 years.

73. You looked down on artisans, farmers, labourers.

– As if degrees made you more human.

74. You never thought of creating jobs—only getting one.

– Entrepreneurship was never discussed.

75. You believed talent is rare and genius is born.

– So you never built your own capacity patiently.

76. You were trained to wait for instructions.

– Initiative was rarely rewarded.

77. You equated struggle with virtue.

– Even if the struggle was pointless or self-made.

78. You thought a degree guarantees success.

– But never checked how many failed despite it.

79. You imagined freelancing is “not real work.”

– Even if it demanded more skill and guts than office jobs.

80. You believed burnout is just part of “growing up.”

– And ignored the cost of this lifelong numbness.

—

🔹 BATCH 3: HOW IT DAMAGED YOUR INNER LIFE & EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE (Points 81–100)

81. You were never taught how to deal with sadness.

– Just told to “focus on studies.”

82. You thought crying is weakness.

– Especially if you were a boy.

83. You learned to suppress anger instead of processing it.

– Because questioning teachers was “misbehaviour.”

84. You confused numbness with maturity.

– The more emotionless you acted, the more “grown-up” you seemed.

85. You were never asked how you feel—only how much you scored.

– Emotional language never developed.

86. You felt ashamed to ask for help.

– Because that meant “you didn’t study properly.”

87. You believed your worth depends on how others rate you.

– Marks, medals, and certificates became your identity.

88. You developed performance anxiety before you learned confidence.

– Fear of failing replaced love of learning.

89. You suppressed joy because celebration was called “wasting time.”

– Fun needed permission.

90. You mistook comparison for motivation.

– Because you were always ranked.

91. You developed guilt around rest.

– Because relaxation was treated like laziness.

92. You buried your real interests to please your parents and teachers.

– Art, music, poetry—all quietly killed off.

93. You laughed at your classmates to avoid being laughed at.

– Bullying was survival.

94. You believed some emotions are “bad.”

– Like jealousy, fear, or vulnerability.

95. You learned to hide weakness, not heal it.

– No emotional safety existed in classrooms.

96. You treated sensitivity as a defect.

– As if only “tough” people succeed.

97. You thought mental health is only for the “mad.”

– Silence around depression, anxiety, abuse.

98. You confused approval with love.

– Because praise was conditional.

99. You mistook silence for peace.

– But it was often fear or suppression.

100. You forgot how to be kind to yourself.

– Because you were constantly judged.

—

🔹 BATCH 4: HOW IT SEVERED YOU FROM NATURE, CULTURE, AND ROOTS (Points 101–120)

101. You were locked in classrooms while the seasons changed outside.

– Rain, wind, sun—reduced to textbook chapters.

102. You studied trees but never climbed one.

– Nature became theory.

103. You memorised names of animals you never saw.

– Forests turned into diagrams.

104. You forgot the names of your native fruits and grains.

– But knew the chemical formula for glucose.

105. You believed farming is for the uneducated.

– Even though your ancestors survived through it.

106. You were never taught to walk barefoot on soil.

– But were drilled in wearing shoes and uniforms.

107. You were punished for daydreaming.

– Even when the dream was about a river or bird.

108. You thought air, water, fire are “science concepts,” not living forces.

– Elemental awareness replaced by formulas.

109. You were never shown how your food is grown.

– You thought milk came from packets.

110. You believed traditional diets are “unhygienic” or “poor man's food.”

– Dal-rice was replaced by pizza parties.

111. You laughed at your grandmother’s remedies.

– Even when they worked better than the pharmacist’s.

112. You were taught Sanskrit is dead, and your mother tongue is useless.

– But blindly repeated Shakespeare.

113. You couldn’t read sacred or folk texts in your own language.

– Lost in translation, lost in identity.

114. You learned Western dates, rulers, wars.

– But not the history of your own village or community.

115. You were told temple stories are myth, but Western fiction is literature.

– One was mocked, the other celebrated.

116. You saw folk dance and tribal songs only during “Annual Day.”

– As decoration, not dignity.

117. You were taught that modern equals better.

– And ancient equals backward.

118. You were disconnected from the rituals of your land.

– Because they were “not scientific.”

119. You lost reverence for cows, rivers, and trees.

– They became “resources,” not living beings.

120. You were taught to conquer nature, not live with it.

– And now you fear climate change like a ghost.

—

🔹 BATCH 5: HOW IT MADE YOU AFRAID TO LIVE FREELY (Points 121–140)

121. You waited for permission to speak, eat, move, or leave.

– Freedom became a luxury, not a birthright.

122. You were scolded for asking “why” too many times.

– Questioning was made dangerous.

123. You feared making mistakes more than staying ignorant.

– So you froze instead of exploring.

124. You couldn’t sit, sleep, or speak naturally anymore.

– You were trained into stiffness.

125. You avoided play as you grew older.

– Joy was made childish.

126. You began to censor your own thoughts.

– Before anyone else could.

127. You feared expressing your body.

– Dancing, singing, shouting became shameful.

128. You learned to dress for approval, not comfort.

– Uniforms outlasted school.

129. You forgot how to rest without guilt.

– Every pause felt like laziness.

130. You were scared to walk alone or make solo decisions.

– Co-dependence disguised as safety.

131. You feared unstructured time.

– “What to do now?” became an anxiety.

132. You avoided risks unless they came with rewards.

– No certificate, no effort.

133. You waited for someone else to start first.

– Initiative was lost.

134. You feared being laughed at more than being empty inside.

– Performance replaced presence.

135. You couldn’t sit with silence without checking your phone.

– Stillness became uncomfortable.

136. You chose the safer path even when it made no sense.

– Success became survival, not meaning.

137. You never learned to live without structure.

– Routine became your identity.

138. You stopped trying things unless you were “good” at them.

– Curiosity became conditional.

139. You were told to grow up—but not how.

– So you copied others who looked “successful.”

140. You became afraid of your own freedom.

– Because you were never trained to use it.

—

🔹 BATCH 6: HOW IT DAMAGED YOUR CAPACITY TO LOVE (Points 141–160)

141. You learned to impress, not connect.

– Love was replaced by achievement.

142. You were taught to win, not to hold.

– Companionship was sacrificed for competition.

143. You valued being admired over being understood.

– Image became more important than intimacy.

144. You chased validation, not vulnerability.

– Because open-heartedness was mocked.

145. You confused usefulness with lovability.

– “If I’m not helpful, I’m not worthy.”

146. You felt unsafe being fully yourself.

– So you performed instead of shared.

147. You thought loving yourself is selfish.

– So you punished your own needs.

148. You didn’t know how to say no without guilt.

– Boundaries were never taught.

149. You saw affection only during awards or report cards.

– Love became conditional.

150. You never learned how to listen deeply.

– Conversations were debates, not exchanges.

151. You avoided emotional honesty.

– Because “too much feeling” was a weakness.

152. You wanted to be liked, not to love.

– Popularity over presence.

153. You could describe heartbreak scientifically, but not heal it.

– Emotions were academic topics.

154. You laughed at romantic feelings to protect yourself.

– Tenderness was ridiculed.

155. You loved things, not beings.

– Marks, gifts, praise—never yourself.

156. You feared deep bonds.

– Because attachment meant vulnerability.

157. You confused agreement with love.

– Disagreement felt like rejection.

158. You didn’t know how to love without losing yourself.

– Merged or avoided, never balanced.

159. You were taught to love rules, not relationships.

– Order over openness.

160. You stopped loving life itself.

– Because every part of it was graded, scheduled, and judged.

—

🔹 BATCH 7: HOW IT MADE YOU A FRAGMENTED HUMAN (Points 161–180)

161. You split your body from your mind.

– Movement was punished, sitting still was rewarded.

162. You split your time into fixed slots.

– Every hour belonged to someone else.

163. You split knowledge into subjects.

– No one told you it’s all connected.

164. You split weekdays from joy.

– Fun was allowed only on Sundays and holidays.

165. You split effort from meaning.

– You worked hard, without knowing why.

166. You split your inner voice from your outer behavior.

– You said what was expected, not what you felt.

167. You split your intuition from your logic.

– Gut-feeling was called “irrational.”

168. You split success from well-being.

– You pushed yourself sick to look smart.

169. You split spirituality from learning.

– Reverence and wonder were replaced by diagrams.

170. You split silence from productivity.

– Quiet was only for reading or punishment.

171. You split school from life.

– What helped you survive wasn’t taught.

172. You split doing from being.

– Always busy, rarely present.

173. You split knowledge from action.

– Knew so much, applied so little.

174. You split theory from experience.

– Failed to plant a seed, but topped the biology test.

175. You split creativity from discipline.

– Arts were “hobbies,” not serious.

176. You split play from learning.

– Even though you learned most while playing.

177. You split joy from learning.

– Laughter meant distraction, not depth.

178. You split your heart from your hands.

– You felt one thing, did another.

179. You split your wholeness into parts to be marked.

– Headed to be measured, not lived.

180. You became a compartment, not a person.

– A file, not a flame.

—

🔹 BATCH 8: HOW IT MADE YOU EASY TO EXPLOIT (Points 181–200)

181. You were trained to obey without asking why.

– Perfect for factories, offices, and armies.

182. You followed rules even when they made no sense.

– Habit over understanding.

183. You craved praise more than freedom.

– Easy to control with rewards.

184. You feared punishment more than injustice.

– So you kept quiet, even when abused.

185. You worked hard even when the system didn’t deserve it.

– Loyalty without dignity.

186. You thought your job is your identity.

– So you tolerated exploitation silently.

187. You feared being left out more than being misused.

– So you followed trends blindly.

188. You accepted burnout as a badge of honour.

– Even when it killed your joy.

189. You thought you had no value without performance.

– Made you desperate to prove yourself.

190. You tolerated meaningless meetings, fake deadlines, and toxic bosses.

– Because you were trained to endure.

191. You believed financial security is worth spiritual death.

– Sold peace for salary.

192. You couldn’t say “I don’t want this.”

– Even when your soul screamed.

193. You respected position, not character.

– So corrupt leaders had your obedience.

194. You believed the problem was you—not the system.

– So you tried harder instead of walking away.

195. You were made dependent on false choices.

– As if the only life options were engineer, doctor, or failure.

196. You thought survival means suffering.

– So you accepted lifeless routines.

197. You assumed your worth must be measured.

– So every boss, app, and platform did.

198. You were always too busy to notice what you lost.

– And even if you did, you couldn’t stop.

199. You became a user of systems you never chose.

– Email, exams, escalations—none designed by you.

200. You became replaceable.

– And thought that’s normal.

—

Epilogue

What they stole from you was not just time, energy, or curiosity. They stole your capacity to know yourself without comparison. They turned your body into a chair-bound machine, your questions into threats, and your joy into a distraction. You were trained to compete, obey, adjust, suppress, and survive. You learned how to stand in lines but forgot how to walk your own path. You mastered silence, but forgot how to listen to yourself. They didn’t ask you to surrender your intelligence—they made you forget you ever had it.

Now you call your burnout “responsibility,” your anxiety “ambition,” your disconnection “success.” You fear freedom, mistrust simplicity, and seek healing in the very system that made you sick. The damage is so deep, you think it’s your personality. But it’s not. You were made small so that you could fit into an economy that needed obedient workers, not whole human beings. And yet—if you’ve read this far, you already know: something in you is waking up. Don’t go back to sleep.

---

YOU CAN STILL COME BACK

a healing dialogue with Madhukar

[Scene: Early morning. A quiet veranda in a rural village. Madhukar is pouring hot water into a steel tumbler. A visitor, Arvind, sits on a wooden bench nearby, looking tired and heavy. The sun is still soft. A cow moos in the distance. Birds are awake. So is the pain.]

Arvind:

I feel like I’ve lost something. Not just time. Not just peace. Something deeper. School, college, work—it all feels like I was climbing stairs to nowhere.

Madhukar (quietly):

You’re not alone. Most of us are carrying a weight we were trained not to notice.

Arvind:

What weight?

Madhukar:

The weight of being shaped into someone you never chose to be. Sit down with your own life for five minutes, and you’ll feel it pressing on your chest.

Arvind:

That’s exactly it. I can’t sit in silence anymore. I can’t be still. It’s like I don’t know how to exist without doing something. Achieving something. Proving something.

Madhukar (nodding):

Because you were rewarded for motion, not presence. For results, not rest. School didn’t teach you how to be—it trained you to run. Always toward someone else’s goal.

Arvind:

But now I don’t even know what my goal is. I don't trust my choices. Even this visit… part of me still feels I’m wasting time here.

Madhukar (gently smiling):

That’s schooling speaking. It whispers: If it doesn’t lead to a mark, medal, or money—it’s useless.

Arvind (choked voice):

So how do I come back? How do I become human again?

Madhukar:

Slowly. Kindly. Locally. You begin by unlearning speed. Let your day move like rain, not like an exam bell. One step is enough. Two is too much.

Arvind:

What should I do first?

Madhukar:

Sit with soil. Walk barefoot. Cook your own food without multitasking. Speak your mother tongue without shame. Read one poem slowly. Not for knowledge. For rhythm.

Arvind:

And my mind?

Madhukar:

Treat it like a guest, not a machine. Don’t force it to produce. Let it rest. Let it daydream. Let it remember what it loved before marks entered the room.

Arvind:

And the guilt? Of wasted years?

Madhukar (looking into the fields):

A seed never blames itself for not sprouting earlier. It waits for the right season. You didn’t waste your years. They were stolen. But you’re here now. That’s enough.

[Silence. A soft breeze. The smell of wet earth. A crow caws once and flies off. Arvind watches the sky, his shoulders a little less heavy.]

Arvind:

It’s strange. I feel like I’m remembering something I never learned.

Madhukar:

That’s healing. Not adding more. Just peeling away what was forced on you. What’s left is you.

—

YOU DIDN'T BECOME!

YOU RETURNED.

one year later with Madhukar

[Scene: Same veranda. Same early morning. The bench has aged. A pot of tulsi sits taller. A mild drizzle has just passed. Arvind is back. He carries no phone. No bag. Just two handmade soaps and a small bottle of castor oil in his shirt pocket—gifts for Madhukar.]

Madhukar (grinning):

You look... undone.

Arvind (laughs softly):

I had to be. That’s the only way I could be rebuilt.

Madhukar (gesturing him to sit):

So, what did the past year teach you?

Arvind:

That nothing outside me needed to change. Only how I see.

Madhukar:

Explain.

Arvind:

I still live in the same town. Same rented room. Same small job. But I eat slower. I walk slower. I speak only when I mean it. I quit two WhatsApp groups. I write letters instead. I spend one full hour a day doing something completely “useless.” And I’ve never felt more alive.

Madhukar (pouring water into a steel cup):

You found yourself.

Arvind:

No. I dropped what was not myself. That’s different.

Madhukar:

And what about the old wounds? The shame, the guilt, the schoolboy in your chest?

Arvind (pausing):

Still there. But softer now. Like an old scar. I don’t hate him anymore. I keep him company.

Madhukar (quietly):

That is the true healing.

Arvind:

I don’t chase books anymore. But I re-read one poem twelve times last week. I don’t journal daily. But I listen when my breath is rough. I don’t perform goodness. I just sit beside my pain and let it have tea with me.

Madhukar (smiling):

You didn’t become anything.

Arvind (nodding):

I returned. To myself.

[They sit in silence. The wind stirs the leaves. A single crow lands on the wet ground. Neither of them rush to interpret it. They just watch. Present. Unbroken. Free.]

—

---

YOU SAT THERE LIKE A BABY

You sat there like a good boy.

Buttoned shirt, polished shoes,

water bottle like a noose around your neck.

You learned your first betrayal before your first shave:

to say yes when you meant no,

to say thank you when you felt nothing,

to say sorry for asking why.

You didn’t cry when they yelled.

You didn’t flinch when they compared.

You learned early that your body is not your own.

You raised your hand for permission to pee.

Sometimes you were denied.

You knew the date of Akbar’s birth,

but not your mother’s pain.

You memorised Newton’s laws

but not the way your grandfather tied his turban.

You passed the board exam,

but forgot how to feel rain without flinching.

They told you to study hard

so that one day you’d become something.

You did.

You became tired.

You became polite.

You became obedient.

You became hireable.

You lost your name in a folder,

your laughter in an Excel sheet,

your intuition in an air-conditioned box with ID cards swinging like funeral tags.

They graded you like cattle.

Your voice, your walk, your speed, your silence—

everything had a mark attached to it.

They taught you how to fear red ink

but not how to heal a heartbreak.

They told you about the GDP

but never about growing your own damn spinach.

They said discipline builds character.

But it only built a wall.

And behind that wall, you sat,

scrolling, eating, swallowing,

choking on the versions of yourself you never chose.

You laughed at the village boy who used neem sticks to brush.

You mocked the girl who danced too freely.

You snorted at the kid who brought curd rice in a steel dabba.

Because school taught you shame before it taught you dignity.

You forgot how to play without rules.

You forgot how to sit without guilt.

You forgot how to rest without being watched.

You even forgot how to breathe without scheduling it.

One day, someone asked you what you love.

And you said:

“I’m not sure. I’ve been busy.”

And the child in you—the one who once drew suns with crooked orange crayons—

curled up and wept in a corner you no longer visited.

This is not a poem.

It’s an obituary.

For the real you,

buried under answer sheets, appraisal forms, and passwords.

But listen.

If you’re quiet enough,

if you shut every screen, every expert, every motivational shriek,

you’ll hear it—

a slow knock from within.

Not a revolution.

Just a memory.

Of how you were before they shaped you.

Don’t run.

Sit with it.

The healing won’t come like thunder.

It will come like your grandmother’s whisper,

like the first morning after quitting a job you hated,

like the taste of food you cooked slowly,

alone, barefoot, unjudged.

You don’t need to become something great.

You just need to stop being what they made of you.

That is enough.

That is everything.

—

.end.